


step one, drink; step two, make mistakes

by gloomysunshine



Category: Fall Out Boy, Hiatus Era - Fandom, Soul Punk Era - Fandom
Genre: Like, M/M, have fun, oh boy, theyre both Sad Boys but when are they not, ur welcome tho, whooooo this is angst city
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-21 02:13:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16150388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloomysunshine/pseuds/gloomysunshine
Summary: Something tickles at the edges of his brain, something about a black fringe and whiskey eyes emerging from a halo of light and a silhouette of someone in the street- something that makes him feel warm and toasty inside, makes him feel like how he used to be. When it was still then and not now.When things still made sense and everything was an everlasting summer, and not this never-ending winter that he’s been plunged into.But no, that can’t be right.It couldn’t be.





	step one, drink; step two, make mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> Helloooooooo!!!!!!!! Welcome to my first ever solo fic!! wow. This fic is obviously inspired by the song Run Dry (X Heart X Fingers) and this whole idea kind of supernova'd in my mind when i first listened to it so i was like "it has to be done!!". I've never written this much by myself before tho but I'm actually really proud of this and I hope you all like it!! I'm new to the fandom so pls be kind. Oh and this will probably be around 2 chapters, I've had this in my docs for so long and just wanted to post something but i didnt think the story was over yet so. Thanks so much for visiting!! Comments and kudos warm my little heart.

A soft stream of light filters through the cracks in the half-drawn curtains, the beams of sunlight highlighting the swirl of dust motes in the air. The room is quiet and still, the sound of soft breathing the only sound that slices through the silence. There’s a button up shirt hanging off the back of a chair pushed out from the desk and multiple shoes and ties litter the floor, and as many crumpled up pieces of paper populate the desk pushed up against the wall. The soft lump underneath the cover of the blankets groans softly and twists to lay on his back, not ready to face the world yet. Or even outside his own bedroom.

 

Patrick brings the heels of his hands slowly up to push into his eyes and starts rubbing both of them roughly, hard enough to hopefully pop them right out of their sockets. His tongue tastes like he took a long lick of Chicago’s shadiest street corner and then ran it along a shitty basement-show stage. A slightly disgusted but defeated grimace forms on his face. He would kill for a glass of water. Or a hand grenade.

 

Whichever comes first.  

 

 _What the fuck happened last night?_ Patrick pleads to the ceiling, slowly floating all the way into wakefulness and trying to sort through the bits and pieces he still remembers.

 

He drops his hands and stares up at the ceiling, brow furrowing as he casts his memory back.

 

He remembers getting ready for the club for the third day in a row, still riding out the rest of his hangover from the night before and trying _not_ to think about how he’s going to the club on a _Wednesday_. He remembers going to the kitchen after spiking up his short blonde hair and throwing on the nearest shirt and tie he could find, maneuvering around the dozens of takeout boxes and steadily ignoring all the notifications coming in from his phone. Then, he remembers leaving out the front door, his pocket growing heavy with unanswered texts.

 

Once he got to the bar though, things turn a little hazy. He remembers flashes of club lights and strangers faces, a faceless man with his tongue down his throat. A whisper of a memory claws at the back of his head and Patrick reaches for it.

 

Something tickles at the edges of his brain, something about a black fringe and whiskey eyes emerging from a halo of light and a silhouette of someone in the street- something that makes him feel warm and toasty inside, makes him feel like how he used to be. When it was still _then_ and not _now._

 

When things still made sense and everything was an everlasting summer, and not this neverending winter that he’s been plunged into.

 

But no, that can’t be right.

 

It couldn’t be.

 

*** _Twelve hours earlier***_

 

The pounding of the club music resonates throughout the entire establishment, the rickety tables and beaten down floor seeming to shake even more as the heavy bass vibrates through the whole room, and if Patrick didn’t know any better he’d think he was in the middle of an earthquake.

 

But seeing as he specifically does not know any better (because he’s here in the first place), all he does is just signal to the bartender to bring him another beer as he leans back in his wooden chair.

 

It creaks and wobbles onto its uneven leg, and Patrick lets his eyes wander around the faces of the other club patrons.

 

 _Maybe I’ll see if I can pull tonight._ Patrick thinks with a bitter irony, almost pulling a chuckle and a smirk onto his face at how preposterous the whole idea sounds. He hasn’t been with anyone in months. Years it feels like.

 

Not since- nope.

 

Patrick cuts that thought off right as it starts and shakes his head like an Etch-A-Sketch. He’s not gonna do that today. He’s doing fine on his own, actually. He doesn’t even remember what he was just thinking about as the alcohol snakes its way into his bloodstream, turning his veins into fire and his brain into a pleasant blur. He mutters to himself and shakes his head a little, blinking to clear his vision and focusing his eyes back onto the other people in the club.

 

He starts to sway to the music in the background, humming along to the lyrics of the song. Something about “tonight being the night” or whatever other bullshit music is about nowadays. Most house music has the same beat anyway. But, despite the horrible tinny sounds coming out of the speakers, Patrick decides then and there that this _is_ actually going to be his night.

 

He deserves a fucking break. He deserves to let loose. He deserves to have one night of absolute freedom to forget about everything. Forget about how his album is releasing tomorrow and is probably going to tank the first month it’s out, forget about his worried and disappointed friends back home, forget about how he can’t remember the last time he really felt like he was home and how when he does remember, he really doesn’t want to.

 

After he signals for another shot to the bartender, he gets up off his chair and makes his way onto the dance floor. He leans his head back and closes his eyes against the pulsating lights, swaying his hips back and forth and feeling the beat thud against his heart. A small smile pulls at the corner of his lips as he opens his eyes to find an attractive man with floppy brown hair and biceps bulging out of his sleeves staring right at him. His smile turns into a smirk and he raises an eyebrow, his eyes trailing down his long torso and lingering around his waist before he snaps his eyes back up to the mans face again. His eyes have grown dark and he starts to make his way over to Patrick, a big ( _big_ ) hand coming out to wrap around his waist, pulling him closer.

 

“Hi,” Biceps says, putting his other hand on Patrick’s elbow to pull him flush against his body. “My name’s Ryan.”

 

“Patrick.” He says, as if this matters at all. He won’t remember his face or his name in the morning. They start to move together, Patrick putting his hands around Ryan’s neck and dipping his face closer to Ryan’s slightly higher one, both breathing the same air. Patrick flicks his eyes up to Ryan’s and makes a quick decision to connect their mouths together, Ryan quickly responding and parting his lips to let Patrick in. Patrick grabs a fistful of Ryan’s hair and tries to get into it, sneaking his tongue in and running it across the back of his teeth and over his tongue. But no matter how he turns his head or tries to focus on his breath, Ryan just tastes all _wrong_ , all cheap alcohol and menthol cigarettes and _wrong._

 

Patrick doesn’t want to focus on what _right_ would be.

 

But he forges on and open his eyes, trying to figure out why Ryan is determined to suck on his face like an octopus. He moves his tongue around and tries to gain the upper hand again when a particularly bright light flashes over them and makes Patrick think he sees a flash of a Jack Skellington tattoo on a tanned arm pass by him, and it’s like a bucket of cold water is poured over his head. Patricks arms turn to jelly and his eyes widen in panic as he fumbles to get out of Ryan’s grip.

 

“I-I need to go,” Patrick stutters. “I can’t do this tonight. I’m sorry.”

 

He stumbles over himself as he tries to walk backward off the sweaty dance floor, leaving Ryan to open his eyes in shock, disappointment and confusion colouring his face as his body finally gets swallowed up by the rest of the sweaty gyrating bodies around him. Patrick turns around and bolts to the bar, shaking his hands out behind him. He almost punches the wind out of himself as he knocks into the bar, one hand pressed down onto the wet and sticky surface as the other raises in a signal to get the bartender's attention.

 

He orders the first thing off the top of his head and receives a whiskey and coke in his hand a few seconds later. He stares at it for a moment and slumps back into a chair, staring through the glass reflection as if it contains all the answers he needs. An almost hysterical laugh escapes his lips for a split second before he gives in and throws the drink back. His vision is starting to blur and he can’t remember if he took his phone with him or if he just feels this heavy all the time, like he’s full of lead, or like Atlas himself has come down to offload the weight of the sky onto his shoulders.

 

He puts the empty glass down and straightens up to search for his phone, patting both of his pants pockets and letting out a weak cry of triumph as he fishes it out of his right pocket, unlocking it and scrolling through all the notifications he’s missed.

 

There’s a few dozen from various colleagues and business partners, some from friends and family congratulating him on his album release, and then buried at the bottom is a text from someone he hasn’t heard from in a very long time, so long that he almost forgot how his name looked on his screen. Patrick squints at it through his hazy vision and forces himself to focus on the tiny words on the too-bright screen to make sure he’s not hallucinating and, yep, there it is.

 

Woop dee fucking doo.

 

_Pete: Congrats on the album dude. Knew you could do it._

 

Patrick screws his face up and makes an indignant noise. He’s too far gone to feel anything but fury, already well down the path of switching into Drunk Patrick and feels the late hour of the night feed into his desire to self-destruct. He stands up all of a sudden, feeling hot and itchy all over, eyes never leaving his phone screen. He wobbles a little bit before gaining his balance and starting to stalk over to the clubs exit, pushing past the bouncer and breaking out into the cold night air.

 

His thoughts are starting to spiral, going round and round in his head and becoming more outraged and huffy with each spin of his alcohol-soaked brain, muttering angrily to himself.

 

What the fuck kind of text is that?

 

What was he thinking??

 

 _Was_ he thinking??

 

And from _him_ of all people, is he actually fucking serious??

 

Who the fuck does he think he is, leaving things the way they were, cutting off all contact for _months_ (okay, maybe that was a little on his part too), and then suddenly he’s going to send one bullshit text and what, _what did he expect to happen_?

 

He can feel his breath starting to go uneven and his world starting to tilt on its axis, so he leans back heavily on the brick wall behind him and unbuttons the first couple buttons on his shirt, looking down briefly and discovering that his tie went missing sometime between the fifth drink and the fourth mistake. He tries to shake his head and scrunch up his eyes, smacking his head back into the wall a little painfully and balling his hands up into fists to try to get his body under control, but his thoughts are turning panicky now and he resolves to make another horrible mistake that one can only make when under the influence of about a third of a bars available alcohol.

 

He snaps open his eyes and unlocks his phone, his thumb gravitating towards the one number he’s been avoiding for what seems like an eternity. As easy as pie, he presses the call button. It rings four times before the phone is picked up and a raspy sounding voice comes through the other side.

 

“Patrick?”

 

Patrick closes his eyes.

 

He hates what that voice does to him, how even after all this time it still has the potential to undo him with one word.

 

Deja vu smacks him in the face all of a sudden, remembering nights where their roles were swapped. He remembers waking up at 3 am to a breathy voice on the other side of the phone and a telltale hitch in his breath that Patrick would recognize anywhere, a shake to Pete’s voice that would have him already bolting out the door in his pajamas.

 

The world flipping upside down gives him vertigo for a second, but then he remembers why he’s calling and his anger crashes back down on him again.

 

“What the fuck did you mean by sending that text, huh, Pete? What, we’re not even on speaking terms anymore, you haven’t spoken to me in months and you think you can just waltz back in here with a fucking _text?_ ” Patrick seethes, revelling in the ability of finally being able to let out all the poison that’s been eating him up inside, feels drunk on the power of truth, wants him to _hurt._

 

“Patrick! Patrick I- What? Are you okay, are you hurt?” Pete’s rough and groggy voice strains through the speaker on the phone, rustling and static in the background as if he’s getting out of bed.

 

“ _No_ . No, I don’t need your concern Pete _fucking_ Wentz. I’m doing just fucking fine on my own. I’m handling it okay? I did this all myself, for _me_ . You don’t get to come in here and-” _And tear down all my walls that I’ve painstakingly put up, breath by painful breath and brick by fucking brick. Just knock them down with one finger, one word, after all this time. Still. You don’t get to remind me just how fucking weak I am with you, and how much I fucking hate it._ “-and fucking pretend like you still have a place in my life, like you still _care._ ” Patrick is wiping angry tears off his cheeks now and looking up towards the sky, not even trying to hide it anymore, feeling like his ribcage has been ripped open with a pair of chainsaws, every breath feeling like thousands of tiny knives in his lungs.

 

He swallows erratically and takes in another gulp of air.

 

“You know what, Pete? You’re a selfish _fucking_ asshole. You only care about yourself and whatever self destructive practices you’ve adopted for the day, and you don’t care who else gets caught in the crossfire. Everything you touch really does fucking die.” Patrick jams his pointer finger in the air, waves it around and then rakes his whole hand through his sweaty, limp fringe.

 

“And I don’t even _care_ that you knocked that fucking girl up. I’m happy about it actually! Fucking fantastic, because now I can finally cut my ties and walk away from the fucking dumpster fire that is Pete Wentz.” Patrick is practically yelling into his phone now, spitting fire and not even meaning half of it but too far gone to care anymore.

 

“Rickster please I,” Pete pants into the phone, tears clogging up his voice and muffling the speaker. “That was- you _know_ it was just- I didn’t _mean_ \- you have to believe me Patrick I- tell me how else I can fix this, okay? _Please_.”

 

“You _left,_ okay? The band may have split up and I might have walked away first but you were the one who made the first move. I tried everything, I _did._ I don’t- I can’t-” Patrick heaves out another sob and ducks his head toward his chest. “I don’t know what to do Pete. Can you just- please? Just this once, just tonight. I miss you, I fucking _miss_ you and I’m sorry, God this is so fucked up I don’t- I don’t know why I did this-”

 

“Shut up, shut the fuck up, _God_ you’re so fucking dumb Trick. You goddamn idiot,” Pete’s voice sounds broken and like he’s two seconds from combusting too, the rustling and commotion in the background increasing and then leading to footsteps down the stairs. “Where are you? Give me an address and I’ll come to you, I’m getting in my car right now.”  

 

Patrick mumbles the club name and presses the end button, letting his hand fall slack against the wall and letting his phone slip out of his hand, crashing to the floor with a resounding crack. He puts his head in his hands and ruminates on how his life got just _this_ badly fucked up.

 

Guilt starts to pool in his chest and the coldness starts to spread out from his heart as his poisonous words catch up to him, seeming to leave heavy imprints on the surrounding air and taunting him with damage that he can never undo, things he wishes he could snatch out of the air and stuff back into his mouth.

 

What does this mean between them now? How should he react when Pete shows up? Should he try to play it cool, stay silent on all the things making noise between them? Or should he just give in and sink into the tattooed arms he’s been dreaming about for ages? Should he try to apologize? The track record for who’s hurt who so far has become so muddled and tangled, he wouldn’t even be sure where to start or how to even go about healing the gaps in all their burned bridges.

 

All he knows is that he’s exhausted, sweaty, on the verge of a blackout, and aching for home.

 

Not his house kind of home, but the kind that found him when he was 16. The kind, or the _person_ rather, that continued to stay by his side through every single car crash, shitty bar show, and overwhelming concert that has happened since then. He just wants to stare into those deep eyes and tuck his head into Pete’s chest and breathe in his scent until he can remember what breathing easy feels like, if only for a little while.

 

 _If “tonight is the night” then might as well go all out right?_ He thinks with a huff, bringing one hand up to squeeze the bridge of his nose and try to ward back the migraine that’s been creeping on him ever since he knocked back that last drink. He really shouldn’t have drank so much.

 

He lifts his head and sees Biceps Ryan leave the club with another man on his arm and actually smiles a little to himself, glad to see at least one person having a successful night. A car with its headlights on drives up in front of Patrick and he raises his hand in front of his eyes to block out the harsh lights, eyes screwing up in offense. The car parks and a figure steps out of the driver’s seat, backlit by the headlights and shadowing his face, but as he walks up closer Patrick can make out the outline of a hoodie and jogger pants, and pretty soon he’s staring straight into those goddamn caramel eyes that have plagued his mind for years.

 

Patrick drops both of his hands and stares. His mind has gone fuzzy and blank, every second seeming to stretch on and on, like time itself has turned into taffy thats been stretched for too long. His eyes drop from Pete’s eyes to his lips moving but making no sound, lingering for a moment before they wander to Pete’s hands stretched out in front of him like he’s approaching a spooked animal. Patrick shakes his head and realizes that Pete has been trying to talk to him over the ringing in his ears and he has to furrow his brows to focus on making out what they are.

 

“Patrick?” Pete says cautiously, undoubtedly seeing how much of a mess Patrick is, slumped against the clubs brick wall, shirt undone, tie missing, limp fringe flopping over his sweaty forehead and flushed cheeks. “Are you okay? Can I- is it okay if I take you home now? You wanna get out of here?” Pete’s voice is unbearably gentle, softer than he’s ever heard it, way kinder than he deserves. He feels another flash of self loathing, guilt and fucked-up-ness crashing through him once again as the rest of his defenses come falling down.

 

Patrick puts his head into his hands and chokes out a desperate sob, swaying to the right dangerously and almost losing balance before Pete lets out a shout and darts over the rest of the way to catch him before he falls.

 

“Oh, Patrick,” Pete sighs and gathers him up in his arms, carefully rearranging him so he can wrap both arms around Patricks shoulders and tuck his head into his chest, making comforting shushing noises and cupping the back of his head with one hand. Patrick lets out another string of sobs and grabs a hold of the front of Pete’s shirt with both hands, shoving his face into Pete’s chest and letting his tears soak the fabric.

 

“Everything is fucked up, Pete,” Patrick mumbles, eyes clenching shut. “Everything. Everything.”

 

“No, no, shush, it’s not. It’s not, I promise you. You and me, yeah? Remember? Till death do us part?”

 

Patrick slowly shakes his head, clenching Pete’s shirt tighter and tighter. He hears Pete sigh, nod slightly to himself and stand up a little straighter to move his hands from around Patrick to put them on his shoulders instead. He pushes Patrick back a bit, chuckling as Patrick whines a little in protest and moves to cup Patrick’s face to look him in the eye, using his thumbs to wipe away Patrick’s tears.

 

Patrick refuses to open his eyes and instead reaches up both of his hands to grip onto Pete’s forearms, brows creasing and leaning into Pete’s warmth as much as he can, because if this is a dream then he wants to hold onto as much as he can while he’s still got him close. If he wakes up in his shitty apartment all alone again surrounded by old takeout boxes and three months of laundry and a gloom that settles over everything like a blanket, then at least he’ll have had this to keep him warm, if only for a little while.

 

“Can you let me see those pretty baby blues, Rick? Huh? Can you do this for me, please? I want to see you,” Pete pleads, dragging his thumbs across Patrick’s eyelids and Patrick shivers, breath caught in his throat and adrenaline spiking, feeling like he’s about to teeter off the edge. He’s scared of what might happen if he does. Stuck between the past and the future, between the what ifs and could have beens, the maybes and probably nots.

 

A part of a lyric floats through his head, and he files it away for later. Another future song, maybe.

 

_I am the best you’ll never have…_

 

The thought squeezes his chest and all of a sudden a striking fear drops into his stomach that the brief warmth of Pete’s hands around his cheeks will disappear, taking the boy and the memory of him with it. In a momentary fit of desperation Patrick flicks his eyes open to make sure he isn’t dreaming, that he is actually awake, and.

 

There he is. Right in front of him, as promised.

 

He drinks in the sight of Pete, eyes flicking over every bit of skin, crinkle, and tattoo he can find in front of him, almost frantic to catalog his boy before he gets ripped away again. Before his arms are left cold and empty again.

 

He lifts his eyes from Pete’s chain of thorns around his neck to his flush lips, rising steadily till he meet those eyes again, now filled with fondness and creased with concern.

 

“There you are. There’s my sunshine machine, eh?”

 

Patrick wants to smile back, but the old name sends needles into his heart and his breathing gets shallow.

 

Suddenly it becomes a little too much, as he realizes what situation they’re both in right now. It’s just right on the other side of too much where Patrick starts to lose himself, because Pete hasn’t been _this_ close in ages and they haven’t talked like this in twice as long. The alcohol is still threatening to make a reappearance and he just needs a minute.

 

So he steps back a little bit, unclenching his fists from Pete’s hoodie and looking down before clearing his throat awkwardly and shifting from foot to foot, suddenly unsure how to act around him. That’s never happened before. Usually they’ve always known where they stood with each other.

 

Like screaming over lyrics in a studio until they’re blue in the face.

 

Or Pete draping himself over Patrick and mouthing at his neck during concerts.

 

Or the quick and breathless fluid motion they fall into that comes with the back of tour buses, or inside janitor closets, or hotel bedrooms.

 

Always orbiting around each other like perfectly aligned planets. Knowing exactly where to go and how to move and exist around each other. Easier than breathing.

 

Not nowadays though. Now they’re more like asteroids, destined to destroy each other.

 

Patrick looks up at Pete again to see him already watching him with a hesitant smile at the corner of his mouth, his eyes still dipped in concern and gentle understanding.

 

“C’mon ‘Trick,” Pete huffs a little at the old nickname. “Let’s get you back home.” He tilts his head in the direction of his car and Patrick’s heart aches, it _aches_ because Pete isn’t supposed to have forgiven him so quickly, he isn’t supposed to be this kind. Patrick was looking for a fight to fuel his mania and self destructive spiral and he counted on the Hot-Mess-Pete to come through for him, not this grown up mature version that has Patrick’s head spinning like a top. But Pete has already moved to open up the passenger side of the door and turns back to look expectantly at him and he’s just so tired, so drained, that the rest of the fight that he still had left in him drains out of his shoes. He resigns himself to slowly trudging over to the car and climbing clumsily into the seat, flopping back against the headrest. The door closes shut with a thump.

 

Pete’s muted footsteps can be heard around the outside of the car and time seems to not matter for a few seconds, everything in a quiet limbo as Patrick stares out of the windshield and through the headlights glare, into the dark entrance of the busy club. He exhales and sees his breath form wispy white puffs of steam and tries to focus on his breathing. He tries to remember that he’s a human being, with a beating heart and working lungs and eyes that blink. The rest of the world rushes back up to him as Pete opens his side of the door again, letting all the outside noises in.

 

For a few seconds, as Pete thumps his door closed and they both sit there breathing together, Patrick is terrified that Pete will try to talk to him again and squeeze the rest of his answers out. He’s scared, because if he does then Patrick _knows_ that he won’t be able to lie to him. Sure he can plaster on a fake smile, lose a bunch of weight, change his wardrobe and dye his hair, he can pretend that everything is fine and dandy and he’s shitting rainbows, that _everything’s better than ever actually, thank you for asking,_ but to Pete? Nah, he’ll see right through his glass house and shatter it completely. And Patrick’s not sure if he’s ready for that yet. Thankfully though, Pete can sense Patrick’s discomfort ( _he’s always known him so fucking well, huh, it’s horrifying_ ) and just sighs and starts the car up, slowly pulling out of his haphazard parking space and pulling onto the road.

 

Patrick leans his hot cheek against the cool glass of the window and feels Pete periodically flick his gaze to where he’s smushed up against the side of the car, but exhaustion is pulling at him in waves and slowly dragging him under.  He sees on the dashboard that the clock reads 5:24 am, and he just wants to pretend for a little while, so he just closes his eyes again and lets the familiar smell of Pete’s car lull him to sleep.

 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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